


splinters

by jillyfae



Series: together we are stronger than the one [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Friendship, POV Multiple, Polyamory, Romance, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 02:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3751345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to be Dalish, and Inquisitor, trying to atone, or find redemption, or just make it through the day. Multiple POV interstitials and ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. losing battles (Blackwall POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Blackwall during _[Vir Adahlen](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/112258700973),_ for [reasonablysunny](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/114771952148)

It’s not a look Blackwall has ever seen on her face before, and he watches her, more than is right, he knows, _he has no rights_ , and yet. She chose, and he let her, and he continues to let her, and no matter the truth he hides he cannot walk away.  By now he knows her face better than he knows his own, after years of hiding behind a beard and a false name, and this. **  
**

This is different.

Her jaw is hard, and her eyes are too still, and when Solas turns on the mages after the spirit is gone, she just stands there, and watches, and they die.

She saved _Alexius_ , despite the way he could see her anger in the line of shoulder and fist. She has refused to execute a single other person who has faced her judgement at Skyhold, and they chose their actions, again and again, while these were just children, scared and stupid, who thought they were saving themselves, who didn’t know they were killing anyone.

Who arguably weren’t, though that’s not an argument he’ll ever start. Some things he’s learned over the years.

Not enough. Never enough.

_Mockingbird, mockingbird._

He recognizes the look on her face, for all he’s never seen her with it before. An officer, too many hours into a losing battle, knowing there’s no way back out again. He’s seen the weight of it settle on her with each new monument they find to the Exalted Marches, each new statue of Andraste, and she mutters sharp deadly foreign words every time they find another reference to Sister Amity.

Who he’d been raised to consider _conciliatory,_  and it’s only now, seeing her words remembered here, surrounded by waste and blood and death and the beautiful trees of elvish graves, that he recognizes all the things she never said, all the blood that must have stained her robes, that she never bothered to mention.

The Sister is long gone, of course, but the echoes of her words are still here. 

His lady is fighting a war, always, and she’s never going to win, and her opponents have the luxury of pretending they’re at peace.

He certainly never realized the war was still waging, slow and cold and deadly.

Does that make him the enemy? Could that make his endless cowardly betrayal better, or worse?

Nothing could make what he has done better. He is sorry, every day, to realize it always gets worse.  


He closes his eyes, pretends he’s not aching for the sound of her voice beside him, for the way her fingers rest so lightly against his skin when they’re alone.

She has refused to rest, lately. Refused to be alone with him, at all. Barely spoken, even, and it is good, he knows, better for her that she distance herself, but it hurts, above and beyond all the other pains he carries.

But it is not so much more, after all. He can stand, at least a little longer. As long as he can help her.


	2. voices (Erana POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for [clio](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/114758933443) ... the turn of a conversation from a different WIP entirely, Erana's response to Varric's asking if she's ever been in love, and she gets a little frustrated, and asks if he loves Hawke, and what does he think love _is_ anyways?

There’s a moment of silence, of Cole’s presence somehow so strongly felt, pain shining in the air between so very many people, and then the firelight catches against Sera’s pale hair as she throws her head back, the distinctive shape of her laugh visible long before my ears finally catch the end of it, her breath easing out of her.  


I am so _tired_ , for the world to be fading so far from sound. She is usually hard to ignore, not hard to hear. “He doesn’t want to see her _parts_ though, does he?”

I close my eyes, pretend that means I can remain silent and they will think I am choosing to ignore them, rather than losing all trace of their voices. There’s an uneven scatter of replies, sharp and low and high and rough and my fingers try to curl into fists in my lap, and I do not even consider trying to find any of the words.

I cannot tell if I wish Iron Bull had been at Skyhold before we left, rather than out with his Chargers, so I could have brought him along instead of Sera to fill out the second scouting group, or if, considering his tendency towards sex-as-stress-relief, it probably wouldn’t have been any better.

At least he doesn’t conflate it with love all the time.

“But that’s not what he said.” I want to yell at them, but instead just open my eyes and try to see them all at once. Perhaps it’s good Bull isn’t here. He is too large, his body language is too different, his single eye too opaque. He is impossible to watch, when listening fails me and I need to see shoulders and mouths and hands to interpret. “Varric asked about love, not sex.”


	3. Skyhold (Solas POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [machakizi prompted](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/124242441048) "Erana/Solas, the first time one realized they were in love with the other" ... this may not be technically the _in_ love moment, but it is certainly the ... more emotionally invested than is sensible moment? ;)

Her wrist felt too thin between his fingers, too thin for the size of the bow behind her shoulder, too thin to support the tension of the muscles taut beneath his palm, too thin to brace against his pull, to hold for half a breath before he met her eyes and got a glimpse of something dark and watchful beneath the shift of green that echoed the Breach far above them. 

He wasn't sure what she saw in him in return, but her shoulders eased enough he could finish his motion, could feel the Mark come to life, could feel the Rift before them twist tight in reaction. He watched the slide of green shadows down her throat as she swallowed, the slow careful way she pulled her arm close to her side, fingers stretching out then curling in again, after he let go. 

Her head tilted, the weight of her hair barely shifting with the movement, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been assessed so quietly, not as prey or predator, not as power or weakness, just a question without an answer. 

The same wordless question shadowed her eyes when she turned back to look at the Seeker and the dwarf, when she greeted the Commander and the Ambassador and the Spy back at Haven, when she nodded her greeting to the Enchantress in Orlais. 

It twisted a little, sharp and brittle, when she met the Jenny, but she took the other archer in, nonetheless. It quieted for the qunari, and she hired him without a pause, or an apparent doubt, and he wondered how much she hid behind the unnatural green shine across her eyes that never faded, never stilled. 

The question softened, at last, when the Warden lifted his shield, and she stepped closer into his protection. Perhaps it was relief, at meeting someone who didn't greet her as Herald, who didn't ask how she was going to save the world, just offered to help. He was surprised that she seemed to trust a human so quickly, seemed to approve of a man who had been training farmers to fight. 

Then again, she never did like bandits. 

And no one could like darkspawn. 

But still, as she worked with them, and fought by their sides, and leaned over a War Table to plan her next move, the tension down her neck never quite eased, the question never completely disappeared. 

She did not quite trust these _shem'len,_ no matter how she had to rely upon them. 

It was only later, standing in the snow, voices soft as he told her of the Orb, her hands tucked under her sleeves to keep herself warm, only after she'd died for them, for all they didn't deserve it, and come back, cold and shivering, come back and stood before them, mouth too tight as they sang to her of their blasted Maker, fingers curled to hide their trembling, eyes gone still to hide her thoughts, it was only now, as she stood before him lit by the flicker of his torch-light, that he realized her question was gone when she looked at him, her eyes warm and steady and clear. 

The ground beneath his feet felt as transient as the Beyond, when one forgot to look at it and hold it in place. 

_She trusted him._

She trusted him, and it burned in the back of his throat, a curl of something thick and bitter in his gut. 

She trusted him, and he could give her nothing, not the truth, not his own trust in return. 

He could give her nothing at all, besides more lies. 

And _Tarasyl'an Te'las._


	4. Quiet (Erana POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for [clio](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/125306681073)

The Warden isn’t what I expected. 

I’m not sure quite what I did expect, or how he fails to meet the image in my mind, but I find I can’t stop watching him, trying to figure it out. 

Not that watching’s a hardship. The shape of him makes my fingers twitch, wondering how he’d look, a shadow across the shape of the Hinterland’s hills and waterfalls caught on hide or parchment. He’s twice as broad as almost any human I’ve ever known before, but not slow with it. A slight cant to his stride, but it’s smooth and steady; been carrying a shield a very long time, I think.

Though that was clear the first time he lifted it.

Still. There’s  _something …_

He’s older, for one. I know they must happen, but I never think of Wardens as anything but too young for the weight they have to carry on their shoulders, the only thing between us and the Blight.

They die for their Order, for the world, or hide away in their Fortresses, or are killed to feed the ‘spawn, or turn into griffons and fly off North in search of wherever the Qunari came from, depending on which story you’re listening to in the dark of a night, but they keep their secrets, and the rest of the world seldom sees the old ones, whatever it is that happens to them.

Not that he’s  _old,_ despite the silver in his hair, and the lines dug deep beside his eyes _._ His brows are heavy, set to frown at any moment, but those lines … those lines make me want to see him smile.

Which is silly. Not a lot to smile about, now, even if a hole in the sky isn’t the same as the usual horrors a Warden has to face.

_Better or worse, this difference?_

Maybe I’ll ask him.

Not tonight though.

Give the old man a chance to rest his bones, first.

I swallow a smile before he looks my way and notices.

Not that old.

Older than I am, though not as much older as he thinks, I’d bet. 

_Shem’len_  always think I’m young.

My nose wrinkles at that thought.

I don’t want to call him a  _shem._

Not sure why.

He cooks like one, chucking the green onions into the pot too soon, so they’ll just be a faint soggy tang by the time the roots and meat are done.

Solas shakes his head at the pot, much like I do, but he’s got a hint of a smile, and it seems clear he doesn’t think of the Warden as a  _shem_  either. They’re talking as Blackwall taps the side of the pot, and Solas doesn’t usually bother with chatter. 

I catch a comment about boots drifting across the fire, and have to swallow another smile. They’re old soldiers sighing and comparing aches,  _not chattering,_ of course not.

Or so they’d claim, but I think they’re more like a couple of aunts surrounded by the bare-faced, clucking their tongues at how young and silly they are, how  _they’ll learn now, won’t they,_  and sighing as they not-so-secretly hope they don’t, that somehow a few of them will manage to stay bright and hopeful long past the point of sense.

We could all use a little more joy.

The rumble of Blackwall’s voice deepens, Solas’ light and steady rhythm overlaid on top of it, and it’s nice, for just a while, to wait and let the sounds fade, to watch the shift of their hands and faces, the glint of firelight against skin and cloth, to just … sit.

It’s almost like home, for a breath, and for all I know it’s an illusion, a lie, it’s a nice one, and I let it linger.

Just for a little while.


	5. baisemain (Erana POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [baisemain: a kiss on the hand](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/128881113793) (for cheesiestart)

Most people try not to look at my left hand. 

Strangers are the worst, of course, eyes too wide as they realize that I’m the one they’ve heard so much about, and they try desperately to match whatever image they had in their head with the reality of a tall thin elf with tattoos on her face, green lights caught in her eyes and beneath her palm.

Some are more gracious about it than others, a subtle shift of their eyes. Some manage to just _happen_  to always stand slightly to my right.

Some scowl as they fix their gaze determinedly on my shoulder, or my chin, avoiding the shift of green in my eyes and the _vallaslin_  across my face as well as the Anchor itself, clearly upset that I’m real and solid before them and making them deal with me.

Even those I’ve known the longest, those who travel with me, who run Skyhold for me, who guard my back, to whom I can trust my decisions and thoughts … even they shy away sometimes from the thought of what is inside me, flinch away from too-wide spread fingers, or my too-bright eyes in the shadows.

Except for Solas, who tilts his head and _considers,_  silently, never sharing whatever conclusions he reaches when he blinks his eyes at last. But he holds my hand in camp at night, and lets his fingers dig into my palm, press between the bones of my fingers, easing the ache that never ever entirely goes away, until I close my eyes and sigh, and let the worries of the day slip away.

Except for Blackwall, who makes a point to hold my left hand when he sits beside me, who never fails to meet my eyes when he greets me, who kisses the back of that same poor left hand, a soft _my lady_  whispered against the leather stretched across my knuckles whenever he leaves my side.

When we are safe, and the night is quiet, and my gloves are off, set aside with gear and armor, he turns my hand between his own broad fingers, and lifts it, and kisses the very center of the palm. 

Sometimes, he shifts, just enough his beard tickles against my skin, and I laugh, and try and pull away, and I can feel his answering chuckle fill the air as he follows, chasing the spot behind my knees, the bend of my elbows, the bottom line of my ribs, until each gasp of laughter burns my lungs, and suddenly his breath is warm against my neck, and I am not laughing anymore. His lips are soft against my skin, and I shiver, _not with cold,_ and my right hand lifts his chin until I can turn and kiss him properly, can feel his breath mingle with my own, can forget entirely about the ache twisting in my hand as I lose myself in his heat. 


	6. in death (Erana POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-Trespasser, Warden!Blackwall... this is not the happy ending

Erana Lavellan is angry.

When you meet her, her smile is kind. She is soft-spoken, she listens, she fights to be able to offer mercy to everyone; perhaps most especially to those who don’t deserve it.

But beneath it all, all of it, the reason behind every choice, the motivation for every careful word, always, _always,_ she is angry. Her anger is a beast chained up in her heart that she never lets free, vicious and snarling and violent. Angry that the world drives them all _to this._  Angry that so many choose to pass their pain along, time and time and time again. Angry at everything her people have lost, that _she_ has lost, and will continue to lose, over and over and over again.

Always angry that she knows so well the scent of blood turning dirt to mud, knows precisely why the beast cannot be allowed to slip its chains.

If Solas had claimed he was tearing down the Veil out of rage, a desperate final bid to deal with the cruelties of the world ... she would have been tempted to help him.

She wouldn’t have _done it,_ but that. That she could have understood. She is part wolf herself, after all, one lone howl deep in her soul, lost and broken.

_The Dalish do not travel alone._

And so, for all they are not The People, she surrounds herself with _her_  people, people of devotion and heart and courage, to comfort her beast, and keep it caged.

It is harder, now.

She gave a piece of her heart to Solas, after all, and for all she could taste his regret on her tongue as he turned away, he broke it, and never gave it back.

She still hopes that he keeps the pieces safe, somewhere amongst the shards of his own shattered heart, sharp edges of despair and rage and, if they are lucky, hope. 

She still hopes that there will be a way, someday, to heal them both.

Until then, she waits, and she does her best to calm her beast when it tries to claw at the missing edges of its cage.

She soothes it with the sound of Dorian’s voice through their crystals, with each new question Cole asks, with the way Bull leans in close to talk and Krem’s eyes brighten as he watches them all, even when she has no idea what they’re making her drink as she sits beside them.

She distracts it with the weight of Thom’s hip pressed against her own as he downs his own drink. Comforts it with a smile when Thom coughs at the burn, and shouts for another.

She almost lost the fight when she lost her arm, balance broken and fingers gone, as she lost the feel of wood beneath her palm, no bow, no paper, no dirt, no slide of leather as she pulled on her glove, no glove, no, just no, just  _nothing ..._ no waking up and tangling a hand in Thom’s hair to pull him close enough to kiss.

She almost lost her hold on rage enough to make the world as broken as she was.

But still, he wakes, and meets her eyes, and smiles, and leans in for that kiss without her ever needing to ask.

Which is more than she’d ever expected her life to be.

So the struggle is worth it, every day.

And not just for Thom.

It’s worth the breadth of Cassandra’s shoulders when she shrugs, the lift of Vivienne’s eyebrows when she almost _almost_ smiles, the shift of feathers from one of Leliana’s birds, still coming home to roost, the newest of Varric’s books read by the fire, the endless soothing litany of her Clan’s new dealings each time Keeper Deshanna sends a messenger, the comforting rhythm of Cullen’s careful words and Josie’s beautiful exclamations in their letters.

It’s even worth Sera’s sharp laugh, and not just because it’s almost always echoed by the low rumble of Thom’s chuckle. It’s worth Harding still trying to teach Dagna how to dance, despite having to remind her, every time, that a jig does not require _sparks_  to be _fun._ (Sera never, _ever,_ helps with this conversation.) 

Erana is occasionally surprised that most of the taverns they have stopped in are still standing.

It’s worth it, even when Weisshaupt calls him back to his duty, because still he guards her heart, and her beast guards his, and Dorian still calls and Cole still sings and Bull still laughs and Krem still smiles and Sera has a trick with a bow that they might, just might, be able to adapt to Erana’s new rig, not that she'll ever fight the same as she did, never again, but still, it is good to remember, to feel the pull and release of one last perfect shot, and every night she can read Thom’s letters, or shift the clip on the board that holds the paper for her, so she can write him back.

Until she runs out of letters to read.

She tells herself he’s fine, figures out all the harmless reasons mail could be slow, or a letter lost, across the breadth of Thedas.

But she knows, _she knows,_  she cannot, she will not ... She curls the finger of her one lone hand so tightly the nails dig into skin and she feels the chains tug somewhere between her ribs, pulled too hard as the beast paces, each pass longer than the one before, stretching further than is safe.

But still its cage is strong. Strong enough.

She hopes.

Until the messenger comes.

She knows the instant she sees him, blue and steel and shadows across the griffin on his chest. She knows as soon as she sees the stance of his shoulders and the bend in his neck. _She knows._ She does not need to hear what he has brought.

She never wants to hear what he has brought.

_She will not._

It’s the beast that saves him, even as it tries to kill him.

She feels the claws tear something vital, feels the cage break, the _rip_ of chains pulled loose at last and it howls, freedom and rage and the burn of blood, _dirt will be mud,_  its howl tears her throat even as she lunges, and there’s a clatter of chairs and wood and leather boots against the dirt and shouting voices that she will, someday, recall as the Chargers rallying around her, but now, now all she sees is the scarred wall of grey between her and her prey, and she slams full force against it but it only staggers back, it does not fall, _she does not fall,_  she screams, and she reaches for a blade to help her claws to tear, but the wrong arm reaches, no hilt, no steel, no claws, no blood, _no hand, no life, no love,_  and she pulls as hands reach, _too many hands, the wrong hands, the wrong voices, holding and pinning, fingers too tight and voices too loud,_ and it is only as a voice she ought to know turns too sharp and finds words old enough to make the beast heel, _ghi’ha’mi’in,_ that she remembers to breathe, that she feels the wet on her cheeks and the blood down her throat and she falls to her knees, and the wall curves around her, thick and warm and solid enough to cage her, now that the beast is free.

It turns her head and spits, blood and phlegm and tears, _her heart entire, gone now, gone, chest hollow and dark and still,_  and they howl together, _alone, alone,_  no other voices left to join them.


	7. solitude (Erana POV, pre-game)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for [sept](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/131117514888#notes): "Isolation (due to circumstances outside of control, even if brief)"

It’s too quiet. 

There’s no one else in the tent.

I can hear the rest of the Clan outside, voices and footsteps and fires settling.

But in here?

Just my own breath,  _in and out,_  in and out.

_I’ve never …_

It’s a gorgeous night, warm and clear, both moons sharing the sky for a little while longer.

In good weather I usually take my bedroll and camp with my age mates, all of us tangled up in the pavilion or around like fire like baby wolfpups, too many elbows and knees and muttered complains about stolen blankets and bedrolls and never enough room.

I have plenty of room tonight.

Tomorrow I will turn the family tent in to stores and share with Nala, though we are younger still than is the custom, bare-faced and foolish.

And grieving.

Allowances are made for grief.

But tonight.

Tonight she is back in her parents’ tent, with them, with Iftel, her family still warm and breathing around her.

Tonight I am supposed to say good-bye.

Tonight I am supposed to ask the Creators to guard my dreams, to grant me one last farewell before they walk too far Beyond for even dreams to reach.

But the tent is too large, and empty.

On patrol there’s always the  _ghilani_ , teaching the paths and the steps with me, sometimes a cousin or two to share the lessons, Canaral’s laugh or Nala’s smile or Iftel’s quiet questions.

_Once there was Shilani._

Long gone now.

I wonder if she will greet them, soon.

If, perhaps, she already has.

If they are sorry at all to see her again, knowing that to find their eldest they had to leave their youngest behind.

_They left me._

I do not cry.

I look at my bedroll, still wrapped and tied.

I have never slept alone.

I do not think I can.

_It’s not right, that I have to try._

Instead I sit, and close my eyes, and listen to myself breathe,  _in and out, in and out._

It is a long night.

And quiet.


	8. (not) running, (Blackwall POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for [anonymous](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/152245902263); early game (during Haven)

Blackwall knows it’s senseless, but now that he’s bothered to start hoping for things again, he cannot quite seem to _stop_.

Sunrises and warm dinners and the heavy slap of a hand on his back at the end of a training session, the sound of a hammer on steel, of metal hissing in the water behind him as he tends his gear.

Better gear than he’s had in an age or two, though clearly he won’t mention that, and his heart twists and he frowns as he works but it doesn’t last, his lips softening at the sound of Harritt’s voice behind him, a shout of triumph as he pulls the latest bit of armor he’s been designing out of the bucket and holds it up before his eyes.

Blackwall likes it here. Likes the _people_ here.

Which is going to cause a terrible crash at some point, but for now he’s letting it happen, _because I am nothing if not an idiot_ , enjoying the warmth it brings, a spark in his chest as watches soldiers train, as they shift their stance and rhythm at the sound of his voice, a smile every time Sera shouts “Beardy” at him, especially if he can see the smirk that goes with it.

Especially if he can see their Herald shaking her head, a sigh escaping her even as her lips soften into something that isn’t quite a smile.

His back aches most mornings, despite having a decent bed to sleep on, but it’s worth it as he stretches it out in the pale glow before proper dawn, it’s satisfying, knowing he’s stiff from the work he did the day before, training and fighting and following the Herald back and forth across southern Ferelden.

It eases something, to know she’ll do her damndest not to lead a single one of them astray. Not even fuzzhead, despite the little line between her brows every time Sera cackles. Era-

_Lady Lavellan_ might hate her title, but she refuses to dismiss a single one of the responsibilities that have piled up against it. So out she goes, day after day. Fighting Crime. Blackwall’s smiling again, even as he wonders if The Bull is up yet, despite the keg and a half he seemed to down all by himself the night before, wonders if qunari even get hangovers. It doesn’t seem like it, watching him chivvy his Chargers into training before breakfast each morning.

He can feel the smile still there, even as he steps outside and stomps his feet against the cold, even as he kicks the latest pile of dirty snow pushed away from the forges to scatter across the path in front of his door.

“Someone’s in a good mood this morning.” He glances to his side, riding the usual lift in his chest at the sight of their Lady, noting the shift of her shoulders, the heavy weight of her breath, the cloud it leaves in the air as she talks. “Sleep in a bit, did you?”

He feels his heart lift even more, though he knows it’s ridiculous to be so pleased that she recognizes his routine, that she remembers him, every time she sees him. “The Commander wanted to cover the drills this morning.” He aches for a breath, wanting to offer his arm as he steps closer, but he keeps his elbows to his side and turns onto the main path, heading towards the tavern, and breakfast, his weight shifting until they’re pacing slowly in step, side by side. “Enjoy your morning run?”

Her head tilts, the shift of her expression too swift to interpret, before she shrugs, and nods. “The air is thin enough I can never get as far as I think I should.” Her hand reaches out to pat gently against the last cedar tree before they reach the main gate. “But I love how it tastes.”

Her voice trails off, and he wonders at it, something that would almost sound like embarrassment in someone else.

“True,” he shrugs, almost stumbles as she turns and smiles at him, soft and light and _Maker, someone shoot me_ , and he coughs before he can make his voice work again. “Not as filling as hotcakes or porridge though.”

“Or bread.” She almost skips a step, sudden delight making her seem younger than could be possible, and his bones feel heavy but still his feet tread lightly beside her, _and I am a terrible old man_. But she is such joy, especially when her nose wrinkles as he chuckles. “Shush, you.”

“No, I agree completely. Had too much hardtack in my life not to treasure fresh bread.”

She grins, and his heart almost stops, because he’s never seen such a look on her face, usually so still and serious, _and it's because of something I said_ , and he wonders again at her age, as the lines beside her eyes and mouth deepen, and the brown beneath the Mark’s green in her eyes is as warm as a hearthstone in winter, as dark as a forest’s shadows beneath the brightest summer sun.

_Void._

“We should hurry then,” her smile softens as she speaks, but it’s there, still there _, still for me,_ “before Sera snags it all.”

_We…_ He tries to shake his head, to let that thought go before it forms, and she almost pauses beside him, her smile almost fades, but he nods properly and they keep going, side by side, step by step. “Of course, my lady.”


	9. honor (Erana POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [inktober fill](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/166367908943)

I do not think of him as _shem’len._ I never have. Perhaps, at first, I thought only _Warden..._ they do work so very hard to keep themselves separate. But when I no longer first thought Warden, it was _Blackwall_ that he became, never _shem._

Sera’s more a _shem_  than he is... she’s assuredly proud of that.

It is not that he speaks well of The People, differently than his kind. He has made his fair share of thoughtless comments, but each and every time he watched, he saw, _he apologized._

A human. For not knowing what to say to an elf.

But even those apologies are brief. Not eloquent, but always sincere. He barely speaks of himself at all, and if I was to take him at his word there would be very little to notice of him.

He says he is nothing special, but Wardens don’t have to fight demons and he does. Never a flinch, never a doubt. It may not be _easy_  to always stand between the monsters and this fledgeling Inquisition, but he makes it clear it was a simple choice. 

He certainly is as ignorant as I am as to how the Veil functions, how to fix a tear to the Beyond. But still he stays. Even before he knew I was the “Herald” herself. Even before he knew anything about me beyond _elf,_  he tried to protect me.

I’ve been a shield between danger and those I needed to protect.

I’d never expected anyone not Dalish to do the same for me.

He says not to trust him, but despite the weight of that shadow on his shoulders, how can I not?  ****When every moment I see him helping everyone around him, training our recruits, offering a hand...

He doesn’t flinch from the glow in my eyes, my hand. Every brush of his fingers against an arm or glove is so kind, and careful. He says he doesn’t deserve to be here, doesn’t deserve my respect, but how can I believe that? Every action he takes shows I should hold him closer, not push him away.

Even when he tries to push away himself, it is so clearly because he thinks I need to be protected _from him_  that it is difficult not to trust him the more for it.

I am a besotted fool, clearly, but Blackwall will never be _shem’len._

_Lethallin,_  though I think he knows enough of the weight of that word between me and Solas to bolt if he heard me say it.

_Vhenan_ would be safer for him, for all it is too dangerous for me.

My heart, given to a man who doesn’t know what it means. Who probably never could, even if I could make him listen as I told him.

I cannot regret the gift, nonetheless.

Even if he never trusts himself enough to take it.


	10. nature (Erana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [inktober prompt: nature](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/166568844658)

I don't hear him coming up the path, but I recognize the shift of light out of the corner of my eye, the weight of a shadow too broad and deep to belong to anyone but him.

I cannot help but smile, though we are new and fragile enough I am caught in a conflicting urge to duck my head to hide it, or to turn and fling myself out of my perch and into his arms.

He's remarkably good at catching unexpected ladies throwing themselves at him.

Though I'm not sure how unexpected a drunken Sera or my own besotted greetings could ever actually be ... he knows us both quite well, after all.

I seem to have chosen the ducked head by default, as he stops at the base of the tree, one hand pressed to the trunk as he looks up towards me.

He's on my left-side.

I have never had to ask, still haven't told him all the details of my injury, of my past, of Canaral, but he always knows to smile at me from my left, to plant his feet and guard on my right. It soothes an ache in my chest I cannot explain, makes the hollow echo to my side on my bad days seems smaller, quieter.

He makes so many things easier.

I shift my weight and slide, a skittering of bark falling around me as I go; he leans back, but his arm is still firmly braced when I land on my feet. _Trusting my aim, vhenan?_ I lean back against the trunk to smile at him, close enough to touch.

Close enough to kiss.

He recognizes the invitation and leans in, his free hand lifting to trace his fingers along my jaw, into my hair, and I close my eyes as our lips meet, as I gift him the small lift of pleasure that hums from my throat into his mouth with my breath, my tongue, and I am pressed firmly against the bark, the breadth of his chest a pleasure pressed to mine, the hint of sap and fresh wood still lingering around us from my slide. 

He pulls back even as my fingers slide through his hair, and his forehead is a solid weight against my own, his breath warm against my face, and I am not sure if I'm more pleased by his greeting or regretful that it ended.

"To what do I owe this lovely visit?" I cannot stop _smilling,_ but I do not mind however ridiculous I may look, because I can feel him smiling back.

"Do you know, my lady, I have entirely forgotten?"

"Truly?" The delight bubbles up in my throat, too bright and shining to let go, even to sound the laugh I can feel trembling in my chest. "Then perhaps you should kiss me again, see if you remember."

He laughs, that low rumbling chuckle I can feel through my chest, my stomach, and my eyes close again to savor the sensation. I can feel the shift of his head, his voice warm as it ghosts across my cheek, a whisper just for my good ear. "I feel that would have entirely the opposite result."

I sigh, mock disappointment, but then he kisses the edge of my ear, pushes even close to reach my neck, warm and ghosting breath, the barest brush of lips, and I lift my chin to bring him closer, curl my fingers through his hair to hold him tighter, and forget everything in the world beyond the circle of his arms and the warmth of his mouth against my skin.

Until Sera's sharp laugh sounds, and the weight of his head settles against my shoulder with a sigh. "Sorry Beardy," she does actually sound slightly regretful. I hadn't know she could do that. "But dinner's ready, innit?"

"Right," Blackwall mutters against my skin, and I have to swallow the unexpected urge to giggle at the sensation. "That's what I was supposed to tell you."

I do giggle at that, just a little, and he raises his head, and I stop as I meet his eyes. I could drown in them, heat and shadows and sorrow and such a trembling impossible sliver of hope. I kiss him one more time, as softly as I can, and push gently at his shoulders. "We'll only get interrupted by the patrol again anyways."

He grunts, but there's a smile hiding there, half hidden by his beard, and I am content as he offers me his arm and we turn back towards camp. Even with Sera skipping and snickering behind us. 


	11. good-bye (Blackwall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [for elfyourmother & inktober: final](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/166969422363)

It was still dark, the barest shivers of grey just starting to show through the windows, though it was still dark and cozy inside the room. He was always careful not to think about that too closely; the top of a tower on top of a fortress on top of a mountain and it was always  _warm._ There were odd whistling breezes in hallways half-buried in the rock below them, but here, this, wide and open and ringed with windows and balconies, here there was never a draft.

Skyhold liked its Mistress.

Skyhold had excellent taste. 

Thom turned his head, breathing in deep before he gently kissed the top of the head resting on his shoulder. She hummed, almost a murmur, not quite awake, her head turning further in towards him, pressing against him. Her fingers curled until the hand that had been resting on his chest was almost a fist, tight and taut.

He smiled, and lifted his hand ‘til it was wrapped around hers, his thumb gently stroking her fingers until her grip eased, until he felt her sigh.

“It’s almost morning, my lady.”

“No.” Her voice was thick and slow, and he felt her shake her head. “Still dark.”

He lifted her hand up to his face, kissed the center of the palm and felt it spark green against his lips.

“No,” she repeated, clearer, smoother, lifting her head ‘til he saw the glint of green shifting in her eyes, turning her hand in his grip until her fingertips brushed against his lips. “It’s still night.”

“Eran –” He started, and her fingers pushed hard against his mouth until he stopped.

He could see the barest shape of her hand, that spark of green shifting to the side until it vanished into his beard as she pressed her palm to his jaw. The glint of her eyes disappeared as they closed, as he felt her forehead press to his, felt her breath ghost across his face. “It’s still dark, still night. Just a little longer.”

_You have to leave in the morning._

She didn’t say it, but they both knew. They’d promised,  _he’d promised,_  and it was time to live up to his word at last.

So why did it feel like he was breaking the only vow that really mattered?

He had to swallow the urge to apologize again, had to swallow the heat that threatened to spill out of his eyes, had to swallow the twist of anger and regret and guilt burning his throat. Had to kiss her again, the soft brush of his lips against her nose, her cheek. He felt her body move beside him, closer, warmer, and her mouth found his, warm and soft, and he sighed, she sighed, her breath was his, his heart was hers, and he kissed her until the tremble in his hands eased, and he could breathe again without a shudder in his lungs to give away his grief.

She kissed him, her mouth soft on his and her fingers soft in his hair and her body soft and warm in their bed. 

_Her bed._

She kissed him, harder, deeper, her mouth open and inviting,  _inviting,_  her body hot and pressed to his and her breath in his throat and his tongue pushing between her lips and she hummed, low and uneven, and he felt it in his chest pressed to hers, in the tightening grip of her hands in his hair, felt it in his mouth, against his tongue, and down his throat as he swallowed.

He rolled, she rolled with him until she was pinned beneath him, his body settling on her as she groaned, and he felt her thighs part, just a little, just enough to set his weight across her hips the way she liked it, just enough his cock was already starting to get hard, just enough that when he lifted himself up enough to rub against her that he could hear her breath catch, could feel the way she curved up beneath him. His hands found hers, gripped tight, palm to palm to palm to palm and fingers interlaced; he pulled them up above her head, pushed them down into the bed, held her there, pinned beneath him as he kissed her, as he swallowed each and every one of her sharp shallow breaths, as he felt each tiny tremble and jerk beneath him, as he felt the way her skin heated against his, their chests pressed so close together he could feel her heart speeding up, beating against his breastbone.

_Please,_

_yes_

_please._

He wasn’t sure if she’d asked, if he’d begged, but he needed,  _she wanted,_  he let her hands go, his fingers trailing down her arms, his beard rubbing against her neck as he moved, chasing the shivers beneath her skin. He reached her breast, kissed her nipple, sucked it into his mouth to hear her gasp, to feel her body jerk, let his teeth scrape so she’d tug on his hair, hard,  _harder,_  and he let her pull, let her push. He moved down her body, kissing her stomach, her hips, the curve of her thighs.

He kissed her between her legs, moved with each shift of her hips, her legs, listened to each stutter and keen and gasp, licked every fold and curve of her sex until his mouth was full of her, ‘til his beard was wet with her slick, ‘til he could tell she was close by the tension in her thighs, the tone of her breath, the grip of her fingers in his hair. He found the very spot he’d teased the most, flicked his tongue across her clit to feel her jerk, then pressed hard,  _hard,_  and moved his tongue up,  _up,_  and he felt her come, heard her cry, felt her fingers grip and give, her body arc and fall, her muscles tense and ease, shivering and shifting as he licked, soft and steady, to ease her along, to stretch out those lingering trembles of pleasure for as long as he could.

He felt her final sigh, the last bit of tension leave her, and he pulled himself up, kissed her hip, her stomach, the hard line of her breastbone, the edge of her collar-bone, the lift of her neck, until at last she turned her head and kissed his mouth, her tongue soft and quick against his lips as she tasted herself, as she tasted him, and it was his turn to gasp, to jerk, as he felt her fingers find his cock, soft at first, trailing against the heat of his skin ‘til he wanted to whimper, to beg, and then her wrist turned and she gripped him tight and he would never want for anything ever again, just this feeling, the taste of her in his mouth and his cock in her hands and he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t, didn’t, wanted, and everything was heat and he came,  _overflowed,_  burning and shivering and on fire with joy.

She kissed him again, wet and messy, and her hands stuck to his skin and his beard dragged against her neck and she was laughing, soft and almost silently, and he rubbed his nose against the line of her jaw, kissed her cheek to feel the smile curve beneath his lips.

“Well, we certainly can’t go out like  _this_ , now can we?” It was light enough he could almost see her smile now, could see a bit of how much it cost to hide whatever lingering shadows of sorrow she still carried for the future. 

_Not here, not for this._  He smiled back, thought only of how beautiful she was, how warm her skin, how kind her words, thought only of how much he loved her  _right now,_  this very instant. 

“I am afraid you’re right, my lady.” He let his fingers trail against her ribs, felt the shiver of another laugh between them. “We’ll need a very thorough scrubbing to be presentable.”

“I’ll get your back if you’ll get mine?”

He hummed his agreement, let his lips find hers. She kissed him back, slow and lingering, her arms wrapped around his shoulders to hold him close, and he pretended he couldn’t see the sky outside her windows, couldn’t feel the shift in the air around them as the sun began to rise.

_Just a little longer._


	12. sweet dreams (Erana POV)

"My, lady." There's a pause between the words, short but noticeable, and I lean back to see, enjoying the stretch of spine and shoulders as my body curves, and even though my view is upside-down, and he's just inside my rooms, not quite out onto the balcony and thus caught in the shadows of the archway, I can still make out his wince.

I unhook my feet from the railings beneath me, and see the barest catch in his shoulders, as if he started to say something but couldn't quite manage it, and continue my lean until I can place my palms flat on sun-warmed stone, can roll backwards off the balcony railing, somersaulting all the way around 'til I'm back on my feet.

Perhaps I bounce up a bit onto my toes, but it feels so _nice_ , moving without the weight of leathers and quiver and supplies. I am smiling as I turn around, and my mouth parts on a sigh as I step forward and join him in the entrance to my rooms, shadows cool across us both, too thin, now that they are shared, to hide anything at all.

His fingers are curled too tightly together, his shoulders stiff, and his nostrils flare with the depth of his breath as he looks at me, his eyes wide, bright fire hiding inside them. I cannot help but reach for him, fingertips just brushing against the hair of his eyebrows, following the shape of them, the crease low on his forehead, so heavy with worry.

"Never a single tear," I whisper, "but still so sad." He blinks, and his shoulders ease with the next breath he takes. I have noticed, before, how he's always a very careful two steps further back from every balcony or gutter I find to help me climb up, and up, and up again. 

"It's a very sturdy railing," I offer.

There's a hint of a smile, and he ducks his chin as he shrugs. "Much better than all those cliffs on the Coast, and the way the pebbles rattle on the slide down." His tone is dry, and his mouth twists, widening his smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

I tilt my head, wondering what to say to that. I can apologize for the worry I have caused, but we both know I will not _stop_. I need the heights, the view, the clear air to see, and think, and sometimes the slide down to lose my breath and fling my worries away.

The one risk I dare take, with so much riding on the Inquisitor's choices. On my shoulders, every day, no matter how much my odd almost-Clan helps to bear the burdens. No matter how easily he could carry me, all on his own.

I do so hate to add to the shadows he carries, but _he_ hates it when I try to say I'm sorry; instead I lean in, a soft kiss pressed to his right cheek above the line of his beard, so I can feel his breath catch against my bad ear at the almost tickle of my lips.

I love how clearly he tells me how he feels, with breath and touch and the look in his eyes, and I never regret the hollow echo down my side where he is hard to hear, because I know he is still there.

My shield, my guardian, my ... what is it the humans say, my other half?

I always thought that an odd phrase, I am complete in myself, of course, and yet.

It fits. The same way he fits beside me.

My weight settles back on my heels, and I wonder why he came up to see me, if there was a reason, beyond just a visit. I tilt my head, and meet his eyes, and I feel it, feel him, the catch in my chest at the impact of his gaze, _every time,_ the barest catch of my breath at the impossibility of it all, of my Blackwall, standing there and looking at me.

I watch as heat builds in his eyes, and I wait. I wonder if I look at him the same way he looks at me, as if I'm starving, drowning, lost in the desert and parched, as if he is the last drop of water that could save my life.

I tell myself I will wait for him to speak of his shadows. I will wait for him to come to me, to lay his truths before me, to ask for what he wants. I have the patience of a hunter, trained and honed over the years; it cannot be so hard.

But still, I can't, ( _I never can_ ), the pull of his eyes is too much, I must feel his skin beneath mine, I must touch. And so I succumb to him first, ( _I always do_ ), my fingers seek the warmth of soft skin just beneath his beard, the tender line of throat and neck, and my lips find his, our kiss as light and necessary as each breath of air.

Only then, when I have somehow given him permission, set him free, does he break whatever chains it is he holds so tight around his heart, and there is, at this, at last, nothing left of me but the scalding press of his lips and the breadth of his body surrounding me and I am _dying_ and I am glad, so glad that he is here, between me and the rest of the world. 

Despite the heat beneath his skin and the _ache_ of everything I feel all tangled in my heart, despite the way his kiss demands everything, and gives everything back, his hands are so soft against my skin. He is so gentle with me, my Blackwall, the barest brush of fingertips to find the line of my neck, up to trace my jaw.

Further up, along the side of my ear, and I jump, ( _I always jump_ ), and he chuckles, and I feel it against my skin, through my chest, my heart, and I never knew I could still giggle, until he surprises it out of me.

Now he is sweet, the heat of our kisses banked somewhere behind his eyes, and instead there is the soft brush of his lips against my forehead, my cheek, the tip of my nose, the line of the scar along my jaw, the notch in my ear that is usually hidden behind my hair, and it is hard to breathe, the ache in my chest too full of him to allow room for air.

"Blackwall," I sigh at last, and he turns his head, the soft rub of his nose against my cheek.

"Yes, my lady?" His voice is a whisper against my skin.

I know I'm smiling, and my fingertips rest against the sharp line of his cheekbones as I shake my head, feeling his beard tickle against my neck. _Nothing, I just wanted the feel of your name in my mouth._ " _My_ Blackwall."

"Yes, my lady," but he is agreeing now, no question at all, not of this, not between us. Mine and his and ours, his heart bare before me. He would die to keep me safe, I know, but I hope, I pray even, though our Creators are long gone and silent, though his Maker is no god of me or mine worth the name, that somehow we will find a way to live for each other, instead.

It seems unlikely, more so every night that I wake from the twist of the Anchor in my dreams, breath and heart tangling together in my chest, too heavy, too fast. 

But now, now there is Blackwall, tucking me close against him, my good ear pressed against his chest until all I can hear is his heartbeat, slow and steady and deep, the rest of the world fading away as my eyes close, too far away for worries. 

Perhaps if I can trust him with this, can let him guard my weaknesses, leave him to watch over the dim echoes of the world around us, I can trust him with the future as well.

Maybe we really will have one.

Someday.

But for now, the present will do, the wide spread of his fingers across my back, the way the scent of cut wood lingers around his hands, different from the sharp hints of cedar from my clothes-press, but similar enough to blend together as I breathe.

I am tired, and he is warm, and I let him tug me further inside, step by slow drifting step, the soft rumble of his voice more lullaby than words, until we tumble to the bed, and I am already half asleep.

I am too old to take an afternoon nap.

Only apparently I am not.

It takes but a few moments more, shifting weight and his hands smoothing my hair down along my cheeks, before I fall asleep.

Perhaps not to dream.

This time.


End file.
